Scream
by Ambikai
Summary: Sherlock is always drowning, screaming, and falling, and Mycroft always lends a hand because what else can a brother do? Set after TGG. Warnings for drug use.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own BBC _Sherlock_ in any way possible ... if I did I would make this all canon.

**Author's Note:** This takes place during 'The Great Game' ... or rather immediatly afterwards with the Pool.

Also a massive thank you to Sidney Sussex: the amazing beta who made this readable - thank you so much :)

And warnings for alcohol/drug use, mild language etc.

**Summary: **Sherlock is always drowning and Mycroft always lends a hand because what else can a brother do?

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><p><strong>Scream<strong>

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><p>He hit the water.<p>

He must be drowning, as his limbs struggled against some alien pressure. Something gripped him: iron hard, pulling him away and he jerked, vision coming in and out _like soft waves crash along the shore and he looks to his right_ a darkened figure was screaming, sound not carrying, just soft bubbles bursting. His eyes were wide, impossibly wide as his mind rushed. Rushed, it didn't stand still not ever _footsteps race over white sand laughter on his_ as thoughts spiralled and withered...

… the fifteen year old boy looks at the neat white lines.

Instead of feeling that rush before the snort, that wonderment of what would happen when he bent downwards all he could really think in the musty and loud room was: trust that James Turner to be able to rule a straight line of cocaine but not a straight line in his Maths book. For all the money the Turners are spending on their eldest son, Sherlock can see that it is going down the drain.

What a waste.

Not that he voices his opinion ("hypocrite" would fall from their lips besides the fact that Sherlock _didn't_ waste his parents' money because, despite his holier than thou attitude, he does all the set work: no matter how tedious and damn boring it is - he just doesn't publicise it, he's clever like that). Still he wants to, wants to smear it in their idiotic faces but he isn't going to because he needs them. He smiles at them, all false and cheerful so he can have some: the neat little white line that lies in front of him.

Unfortunately in a half-lit room where teenagers begin to engage in the age old art of attracting a prospective mate: boring.

This isn't, though, and his lips quirk as the plate is passed to him, Turner smirking as he bends down - there, the rush hits him almost immediately. Not fast enough, not for his liking but soon he is away as his mind sprints: Ben White has semen on his jeans from Rory Hill, while some girl sits between the two boys, drunk: she has run away from home, she doesn't really want to be here but she's too cooked and he can tell this by the way she looks at a redhead across the room who is pickpocketing some of the boys' wallets and her dilated pupils - and then there are the rest with their drinking games: truth and dare, each challenging one another to hook up with each other because they can't admit the feelings they hoard - the wallpaper a complex criss-cross of miniscule lines that no one is seeing while girls deliberately dance too close as the boys salivate.

He just sits - stands watching them, he blinks wondering how he got from A to B to Z to G with a shot of whiskey in his hand and two more lines running through his system - _I should sit down_ says a voice in his head, common sense, he supposes but doesn't - and then his eyes sharpen, and each sound separates on a different wavelength and he hears the thud of footsteps upstairs and he knows something is wrong.

He yells but nobody seems to hear him, and when the cops burst in, he slips out into the freezing cold night and stumbles under the moon while everyone is charging, and screaming, and standing still frozen in place - and he laughs as he walks with a girl, that girl who was pickpocketing - hand in hand with him. He frowns: when had she come with him?

Note to next time: do not drink and do drugs. They counteract each other too much and it's such a waste.

"How did you get here?" he asks.

It takes him a minute to formulate the sentence but he doesn't realise.

"Mmmm," she mumbles back to him.

"How did you get here?"

"Followed you - you look … brainy," she says.

It clicks then: he slipped out, she following after him because she is observant like that, she's like him, she watches and he smiles.

"I am brainy."

She laughs.

"Big?" she asks, points in the direction of his head but instead her finger leads to a lamp post.

"Yeah?" his voice rises at the end: he is intelligent but his brain is technically regular in-size; he just uses it properly and so he isn't sure.

"Why was that an answer?" she asks.

He blinks. "Question."

"Oh ..."

It doesn't surprise him too much when she forces her lips on him, pushing him against the wall and despite his lack of response keeps going. It doesn't surprise him when she empties his wallet and saunters off and he's left giggling on some street in Central London, giggling because he feels sick: mouth so dry and he doesn't want to stand in case he falls, and the rush is now leaving him - kinda, sorta. He never caught her name. Everything is still fast but now he can't hold onto it - all this doesn't surprise him much.

What does surprise him is his brother calling his name, hurling him into his crap car and driving him home (not real-home-by-the-sea but home in this city that never stops), indulging him as Sherlock starts to sing 'there's antimony, arsenic, aluminium …' and Mycroft answers with a rhapsody about calculus. He isn't sure how his brother found him but he's overjoyed that he did; he grips onto Mycroft's coat; cold water from the shower falls into messy curls, bringing a strange sense of clarity as he is placed to bed and Mycroft sits there reading government reports: a calm baritone to whisk him off to sleep.

Sherlock takes it all in, not sure why because he should be trying to rest, but his mind is burning for new information as …

... his mind was a hard drive, his thoughts were an ocean and he couldn't channel them now, the water bursting through and washing away any chance of understanding of _the stars the moon the tree over the hill_ what was going on as something pulled at him, something frantic _and John stands there watches him with a_ - John! A voice, his, was screaming, John, _John, John!_

… nothing is replying to that voice.

Sherlock is ten and sitting in his old leather armchair (previously owned by an elderly couple judging by the smell and the scuff marks on the leather) that looks onto their garden in Rye from his bedroom, his rail arms hugging his tiny frame. His eyes aren't blinking; they aren't observing either. There is nothing to gain from this and despite his lack of thought there are so many different considerations, what ifs and questions racing through him.

No, not thoughts, he recognises, as his stomach churns into something unpleasant. Its emotions: unordered, chaotic and human.

"Sherlock."

The voice is behind him now and he twists slightly to see Mycroft standing behind him, hair grown out from the summer and face tired from travel. He still has his book bag slung over his shoulder, and his coat on, and judging from the scarf tired around his neck he's just arrived from Cambridge.

Sherlock sighs and shuffles in his chair, propping himself up as Mycroft drops the bag, shrugs off his jacket and manoeuvres into the armchair, whereupon Sherlock sits on his brother's lap: still staring out into the cold greenery but consciously burrowing himself into his brother's frame and letting his brother pull him into a hug.

"Mummy says you aren't eating."

"Not hungry."

"Yeah you are."

"Not,"

"Sherlock -"

"You're just hungry," says Sherlock, tucking his head under Mycroft's chin, and with one small finger poking at Mycroft's stomach.

Mycroft sighs, all too aware that his study eating habits aren't kind, but decides against responding to that and instead says in the same soft voice.

"Wanna help me make a cake then?"

Sherlock blinks, considers it, and figures it isn't as good as an experiment but it is something to do. He needs to do something - that's what Mummy had told him and Daddy had tried to order him.

"Chocolate?" he asks

A chuckle rumbles in Mycroft's chest that doesn't reach his dead eyes. "Every time."

The two brothers move to the kitchen, with Sherlock being forced to wear an old jumper for warmth as they wander through the cold house. Their hands grip tight, Sherlock forgetting to breathe as they hear the soft murmur of their parent's voices upstairs. He can't quite make out what they are saying and Mycroft doesn't want to him to as he pulls his brother more frantically to the kitchen.

They started to make a cake: arguing about amounts, Mycroft tearing out his hair, Sherlock wondering what adding half a cup of pesto would do, the usual banter between two brothers. Mycroft makes no attempt to ask Sherlock about Aunt Eliza and _that shopping trip_, he makes no reference to their lost loved one, until they have given up on baking. They move to the pond near their house, eating raw cake mixture, with Sherlock leaning against his big brother.

The details bleed out.

The details are all methodical, logical - too mature for a ten year old and the accuracy with which Sherlock describes the mugger lacerating their aunt as he hid behind a dumpster, the way his hands slowly stroked and tried to calm their aunt in some mockery of kindness and how Sherlock picked an empty wine bottle and with some unknown strength threw it at the man and sprinted until he found someone, screaming and screaming until someone came

his voice broke then. Words no longer forthcoming as he wept openly and freely against Mycroft, the last time for a long time, his eyes itchy, cheeks red, face wet and …

… his lungs were burning, and he kicked: kick, kick, pushed the water as his long limbs flailed. He could see the burning light above and maybe he was in Hell, in the River Styx, swimming to his end and yet he continued because John was _kick, kick_, kicking beside him, as tiny pinpricks of something dark jolted in a macabre dance…

… he rarely does this at clubs and bars because it is too risky. _But_ it's his first night of freedom. He isn't at university anymore, he isn't at home. He _is_ his own man with independence running through his veins, and soon another rush to join it, let his mind spin _faster_.

He can make an exception.

He licks his lips in anticipation and brings the needle to the right level, slid it into his skin. A gentle push and he feels the drug seep into his body and then everything became/becomes/is sharper.

High definition, the clarity that surrounds him is marvellous.

He jumps to his feet and moves: shifts between parties, coming into the centre of attention and floating out. It is fucking great - can you see the light flickering there? Sherlock can and _knows_ - the manager is cheating with his electrician, and the electrician is furious the manager is still sucking off his banker - he turns to describe this to a slut from South-end-by-sea (alliteration is lovely) and she throws her drink at him when he let her know that: spilt her life story for the boy she is trying to impress.

He doesn't mind, doesn't care, just continues to move about and soon onto the dark streets, owning them with a casual confidence that comes from being as free as a bird. He's the king, with every piece of knowledge in reach and he smirks, turning into a shortcut to nowhere.

Something grabs him from behind: knocks him down, his friends jeering as he withers from blow after blow, his torso taking the brunt.

"Faggot," they yell, move off and he's lying there, bleeding and bruised with his jeans still pulled down and face in what smelt like shit or something of that nature and eventually he pushes himself off the ground and reaches home-shit-hole-temporary-residence-whatever. He hurts all over: _he hurts so much_. He picks up the phone and begins dialling _his_ number but stops: heading into the bathroom and sitting in the shower.

He tells Mycroft later he doesn't need his help, tells him he isn't going to rehab and tells him to piss off. Mycroft tells him to stop acting like a fucking child, to stop screwing up, to set himself straight because he doesn't have the time to keep looking for him to make sure he isn't dead, and that Mummy is sick to death with worry.

Mycroft orders Sherlock to clean up and to stop being such a _disappointment_.

Something snaps: a month later he's scratching his arms and searching for the next hit and fighting against it …

…he burst to the surface, lungs screaming and he wanted to sink again but didn't because that iron grip was pulling him again.

John

His mind was still swimming but he could see John there: fighting. John was a soldier, he had been in Afghanistan, he had been shot in the shoulder not the leg he had a limp he liked jam on toast on a Tuesday but otherwise cereal he had a dimple when he tried not to laugh when he was mad he would sit and stare outside with tea in his hands he would always argue with him about eating he always put on those fluffy jumpers he would run his hands through his - stop.

stop...

…he keeps going.

Sometimes he just argues, he just says things to deliberately hurt. There was something in him that purely liked reactions; it's the reason he likes chemistry so much, Mycroft has mused. At least with the rest of the populace he has a limit, knowing once he says one thing he has already beaten them, but with Mycroft he keeps going.

He doesn't stop and yet Mycroft always smiles back at him and responds with something equally as destructive and true.

Sherlock feels like shit because he can never seem to match.

He mostly keeps his comments to off-hand remarks these days, and forces himself into a meditative state of calm because he fears the day when Mycroft snaps and won't let him come over at three o'clock in the morning, and so he takes a breath …

… he took a deep breath and swam, was pulled to the edge. His hands gripped into the edge, and what was left as it crumbled beneath his grasp. All around him was the smell of smoke, of flames and the echo of boom _boom BOOM_ ringing. He stared at John: something dark was trickling down his friendflatmatewhateverhewas's face. He reached out and John didn't move as his hands brushed against his hairline.

John smiled: the corners of his mouth creasing and then it slackened, the soldier slipping back down.

no no

"…no," he says firmly from across the kitchen table.

"Oh grow up, Sherlock," says Mycroft as he winds spaghetti around his fork, "straighten out - don't you realise you almost got expelled? Don't you want to -"

"Shut up."

"Oh, did I hear a full stop there?" says Mycroft, quirking an eyebrow.

"I said -"

"I know what you said, little brother," says Mycroft, his voice _soft_, "But you'll find this is my house - and you are under my care until Mummy sees it fit to return from Paris and deal with you - so you _will_ listen to -"

"You aren't _him_," says Sherlock slowly, eyes dark. He looks at his older brother directly in the eye, lifting his fork to point it at Mycroft, accusing him, "You aren't him - you aren't Dad, stop -"

Cutlery clatters on the cherry wood table.

"Oh that's right," seethes Mycroft, "Make it all about poor old you - do you think I wanted this Sherlock? That I wanted to have to look after my baby brother because he's so uncontrollable? Do you think I want to play 'dad'? Because I don't. I have my own life - stop making this about you for fuck's sake,"

A clock ticks.

Mycroft sighs, leaning back. "Go to your room."

"I'm going out."

"No you aren't."

"Yes I am."

Sherlock stands up, verging towards the front door, his head pounding.

"Sherlock."

He stops, pauses, hand resting on the burnished copper door knob.

"Please, don't."

Sherlock naturally doesn't listen. He rebels against all authority because _he is Sherlock_. He is different. He is a screw-up but a genius, he is an arrogant sod but charmingly pleasant (when he needs to be), he is a chameleon and an outsider. He is furious and ...

…Sherlock snapped, his hand grabbing John's water-laden shirt. He pulled John back, sinking himself as he hurled the heavier man up onto the cracked pavement, near a mountain of rubble and the crackling of flames. He then propelled himself up, kicking though his leg seared with agony and he soon just slumped: half floating, half gripping onto the wet pool edge...

…he doesn't go out. He heads outside and sits down in the cold night air with only his jeans and a light shirt on for a few hours - he isn't really sure how long, to be honest. He just sits, shredding some leaves, stares into nothing, his head pounding, pounding, pounding. He closes his eyes and when he is certain Mycroft is asleep (he must be), he creeps back in but ignores his makeshift room and climbs upstairs to Mycroft.

His brother might be been awake but if he is Sherlock doesn't notice it as he slips onto the covers, slowing his breathing and listening to his brother's soft breathes.

The darkness is all around him still and yet the pounding starts to finally fade as …

…he lost track of time, he lost track of sight, he lost track of the labyrinth of thoughts that were twisting in his mind: streaming and pulsing as they tried to make sense but he didn't want them to make sense, he just wanted to lie here and fall…

…the current is too strong but Mycroft, always Mycroft, grabs him and pushes him onto a board.

"Idiot."

Sherlock smiles, all dimples and seven years old, as Mycroft rides back to shore …

… gentle hands pulled him up, and if he could follow his thoughts he would've known _emergency services are here_ but instead he struggled, yelling hoarse and fighting because he wouldn't be bloody taken, he wouldn't let Moriarty taken him or John: he wouldn't, couldn't never should've let it happen. His hand anchored on a stranger's ankle, veins popping as Sherlock tried to - someone gripped his wrist holding it firmly in place. He felt a jab. A wave of calm swept over him _which was wrong, wasn't supposed to happen._

He was pulled onto a stretcher, vision flickering in and out as armed men moved about, a girl in heels texting furiously on her BlackBerry near the ambulance and then everything seemed to go black as a warm hand pressed on his shoulder.

Sherlock was taken to hospital, still drowning in his mind and unaware of the member of the British Government who was following him in a neat black car, not aware of the man _who once held his hand when the monsters came at night_ holding his hand as he dreamt of faraway places and forgotten times.

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><p><em><strong>Fin<strong>_

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> Thank you very much for reading - thoughts are appreciated. :)


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